Love after the End

by Love after the End- Two-Spirit

  “Don’t do this to us.” I grabbed her sleeve and started pulling her away from the gates.

  Thorah yanked herself sleeve away, recoiling as if she was being attacked by an animal. “I’ll be here holding our spot. They won’t leave. I’ll make sure they don’t.” Her face was pinched. The tendons in her neck strained against her freckled skin as she clutched her bag to her chest.

  “Thorah. They won’t listen to you!”

  She turned and let herself be swept toward the gate.

  I moved against the tide of travellers, calling Asêciwan’s name. I checked the bathroom two more times while the room emptied through the portal gates. With only minutes until the shuttle was scheduled to depart, I left the secure area, whirling into the station’s expanse. In the lull between departures, the concourse was deserted, but for a tiny figure in purple waiting under the archway of the main doors.

  I was out of breath when I reached her. Asêciwan looked up at me, her face giving up its stoicism with a little twitch beside her mouth. “What took you so long?” she asked.

  “We have to go back. The shuttle is about to launch.”

  “No.”

  I glanced back to the station. “If we go to the desk, maybe we can get a message to Mommy that we might not make it.”

  She shook her head. Her steady brown eyes held mine, waiting for me to understand. I leaned in and listened to her with my body, willing her to say what I could not. Our breath rose and fell together like the drawing of tides. And then she blinked and turned away. The connection was cut.

  Asêciwan took quick little steps down the carved granite stairway. She did not look back to see if I was behind her. I watched her go, thinking of Thorah strapped into her seat alone. A moment later, I let my feet carry me away from the station.

  We walked to a platform that had been built as a viewing area for the shuttles to the New World. There was almost nothing to see when the shuttles left, but the few of us staying behind were still moved to gather. I held out my phone for Asêciwan to see the clock, and we counted down the seconds until takeoff. Her neck was taut and sweaty under my palm. At last, an old-time train whistle blew, and then a flash came from just behind the station. That was all. After a minute or two, the clusters of observers broke off and floated away.

  “Can we go ask the lady if Mum really went through?” Asêciwan asked.

  “Of course.”

  I TRIED TO APPEAR CASUAL when I asked the woman behind the glass whether or not Thorah had left on the shuttle.

  “We only give that information out to family.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  The woman squints at the screen, absentmindedly pushing her cuticles down with a fingernail. “Okay … I can tell you that—yes, she did depart.”

  There was a bare flicker of pain around Asêciwan’s eyes and then nothing. No tears. A wall.

  I turned to Asêciwan. “She must have thought we were going to make it on the shuttle.”

  “No. She wanted to go,” Asêciwan said. “She was afraid.” I reached down for her hand, but Asêciwan was already striding purposefully toward the rectangle of light at the entrance of the station.

  I had almost caught up to her when a voice behind me called, “Ma’am? Ma’am? You left your passports.” I paused, then jogged back to the counter for the documents.

  After the darkness of the station, the street was painfully bright. Heat ricocheted from the sun-blasted concrete. I put a hand up to shade my eyes, searching the empty roadway.

  “Asêciwan?!” She was either gone or hiding. I tried to think where she would go. Her world, which once included the entire city and the faraway homes of our cousins, had been carved down to only a few short blocks. Now, there was only one place where she would run.

  I retraced the steps we had taken earlier, feeling the soles of my shoes soften on the hot asphalt. The city was eerie without the everyday hum of people and traffic. The strange quiet seemed to amplify each small sound. The dry flap of a pigeon in a doorway, the clatter of an aluminum can rolling in a swirl of dust, a shout from somewhere up ahead.

  “Asêciwan?!” I called again, but there was no answer. I reminded myself that it didn’t mean anything. She knew enough to stay quiet and keep herself small in order to avoid danger. We both knew that as it got later in the day, there would be more people on the street, looking for who knows what.

  Up ahead, a small group of men were peeking in the windows of cars in an abandoned lot. They had appeared as if summoned by my thoughts. I ducked into the alley and circled around, giving the men a wide berth. I had heard that there were roving gangs who scavenged anything of value to add to the stockpiles in their compounds. A pop of breaking glass and cheers echoed behind me. I walked faster. Private homes were still off-limits to the scavengers, but most commercial areas were a free-for-all. There had been rumours of women and children being stolen and sold, but it wasn’t clear whether that was real or a story spread by the New World Government to try to encourage migration. Both seemed both likely, but in either case, it was always wise to avoid groups of men.

  By the time I arrived home, an enormous metal container half-full of cracked gutters and scrap had been left squatting in front of the house. Without siding or windows, our home was no longer itself. It was diminished and strange, like a bird plucked of its feathers or a wolf without teeth. I found Asêciwan in the garden out back, hiding from the workers. They could be heard banging around inside, their laughter muffled as they yanked up floorboards and hammered the hinges from doors.

  She crouched behind the Nanking cherry, pulling at the strangling vines that twisted into our yard from underneath the fence. I kneeled beside her and set to work tugging at the weeds. Her shoulders shook with tears. I put my hand between her shoulder blades as I had always done.

  “Stop.”

  I pulled my hand back. Asêciwan yanked at a vine, pulling its ropy branching tendrils away from the fence, then following the length of it toward the house.

  “We can’t stay here, honey.”

  She spun around. “Why did you make me do that?” Her face was red, wet with sweat and tears.

  “Do what?”

  “You pretended you were gonna follow her. Even though you knew you couldn’t.”

  “I was. I was going to follow her.”

  “No, you weren’t! You left it to me! You made me choose so you didn’t have to.” She ripped at the vine, pulling up clods of dirt and orange calendula with it. “I hate you. I hate both of you.” Asêciwan chucked the debris over the fence and curled up like a beetle, hugging her knees. A single sob broke free from her body before she could clamp down on it.

  I stood there useless, feeling for the first time that she might not want me to comfort her. Knowing that I had hurt her in a way that could not be undone.

  “Hey!”

  I turned my head. The round-bellied man was standing at the back door, watching us. “You can’t be out here anymore.”

  “It’s our house. Back off.” I spat.

  He leaned against the doorjamb. “It’s not. It’s city property now. You’ll have to find someplace else.”

  I rose to my feet and stalked toward him, claws out. His eyes flicked over me, assessing the potential for damage. “Get back in that house before I tear you a new one, mêwicisk!”

  The man backed inside and slammed the door. “I’ll give you one minute!” he called.

  I crossed the grass to the back corner of the yard, where Asêciwan was curled up in the bare patch of dirt she had torn up. I reached down and held out my hand for her to take.

  “Come. It’s time to go.”

  Asêciwan slapped my hand away and stood up on her own. She brushed at the stains on her leggings, keeping her eyes fixed somewhere far beyond me.

  The voices of the men rose up inside as they argued about what to do. Dark shadows crossed by the windows. They would be out here soon.

  “Please, Asêciwan.”

  She squeez
ed her eyes shut and put her hands over her ears, as if by blocking out the world she could somehow make it different.

  I heard the door click open behind me. Heavy feet dragged over the wooden boards of the porch. Asêciwan stayed rooted there, her face squeezed tight and quivering. There was a rustle of dry grass behind me. No more time. I lifted Asêciwan in my arms and swung around, rushing past the hard-eyed men. I squeezed through the narrow gap between our brick wall and that of our neighbours.

  I burst out onto the sidewalk and sprinted down the street. Asêciwan was wailing now and pounding my back with her fists in a way that she hadn’t done since she was four years old. Her heels flopped against my thighs. I ran down the middle of the heat-rippled pavement, not daring to look back until we were blocks away and Asêciwan had gone quiet and limp.

  Parliament Street was dead, except for a corner store that had been open every day for twenty years straight. I set Asêciwan down stiffly on the pavement. She stood silently with her eyes down. I walked north, keeping an eye out for movement on the horizon. I could hear her trudging behind me. I stretched my arm for her to take my hand as we walked, but she left it to hang, an awkward invitation. After a few long moments, I let it drop.

  We trekked silently through the hollowed-out city under the relentless midday sun. We were now without our luggage, without anything beyond each other. It occurred to me that in a year or two the streets would look completely different as plants and animals began to reclaim it. We were sleepwalking through a twilight time, after the unchecked human explosion, and before whatever came next. We zigzagged through the residential streets of Cabbagetown and up through Yorkville and the Annex, avoiding the ransacked storefronts of Bloor Street and those who scavenged there. Twice we encountered other wary stragglers. Each time, we kept to ourselves and they did the same. Throughout the long walk west, Asêciwan followed several paces behind. Her small whimpers and sniffles came like gusts of wind. I resisted the urge to hold her. It was odd that she hadn’t asked where we were going—it had been more than a year since we ventured west of Spadina. I guessed she was too proud or too exhausted to care. She kept an even pace behind me, unwilling to either come closer or to be left alone.

  Coming from the east, it was the flags that first rose up to announce that we had made it to High Park. Hot red and yellow Mohawk warrior flags flapped alongside rainbows and homemade banners with messages like THIS IS INDIAN LAND! AND UNITED NDN NATIONS! UNITED NDN SEXUALITIES! UNITED NDN GENDERS! Hundreds of them all flew high above a massive wall that surrounded a fortress of reclaimed materials. The wall itself was alive with flashing mirrors. Shards protruded like knives from the outside, making the barrier glitter in the afternoon sun. It was a thing of beauty and terror, designed so that anyone who tried to scale the wall sliced them selves open or drew the attention of the night watch with the sound of breaking glass. A hand-painted sign above the entrance announced our arrival at NAGWEYAAB ANISHINAABEK CAMP: RAINBOW PEOPLES’ CAMP. A HOME FOR INDIGENOUS 2SLGBTTQI PEOPLE AND FAMILIES. I snuck a glance behind me. Asêciwan’s face was inscrutable.

  When we were within shouting distance, a small panel slid open and a voice called out:

  “Aanii! Piish enjebayin?”

  We stopped. They were Nish. I tried to remember something in anishinaabemowin, but my memory was suddenly gone.

  There were whispers behind the fence, then a second voice tried,

  “Tansi! Awina kiya?”

  The question filled me up. They spoke nehiyawewin. Our people were there and they wanted to know us. Asêciwan looked at me skeptically, then widened her eyes as if to say, answer them, Mama!

  I knelt down beside Asêciwan and gathered her clenched fists between my palms. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the wall. I took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t fight to keep us all here together.”

  Asêciwan’s gaze snapped back to mine. At once, I could feel her listening. My words settled between us like a sheet. She clutched my hands harder.

  “I miss her so much already,” Asêciwan said.

  I nodded, blinking. “Me too.” She wrinkled her nose at me, showing me that she saw the tears building behind my eyes. Neither of us would allow ourselves to cry.

  There was movement behind the wall. “Tansi! Awina kiya? Who are you?” The voice called out again. Asêciwan’s eyes pleaded with me to respond. I kissed her on the forehead and pulled her close to me.

  I directed my voice toward the faceless wall. “Em Callihoo nisihkason, egwa …” I looked at Asêciwan.

  She lifted her head, but stayed close to my chest, a layer of sweat between our bodies. “Asêciwan Callihoo nisihkason!” she called out. “Em Callihoo nikawi egwa Thorah Anderson nikawi. Amiskwaciy wâskahikan ochi niya. Tkaronto mêkwâc niwîkin.” Asêciwan thrust out her chin proudly and glanced at me for approval. I nodded back, drunk on the sound of nehiyawewin on my daughter’s tongue.

  The person on the other side of the door was quiet. “Um, I’m still learning my language. What did you say? You’re here with your mom?”

  “She said her name is Asêciwan Callihoo. She said her mother is Em Callihoo and her other mother is Thorah Anderson. We’re originally from Edmonton, but we live in Toronto. Pihtikwe ci?”

  After a moment, a small door swung open. For the first time since that morning, Asêciwan and I walked side by side. Mother and daughter, two parallel planets.

  AND THAT’S HOW THE CIMOWIN, the story, was passed to me by my nôhkom. She lived back in the time before the reports came that life on the New World had fallen apart, before our protectors dismantled the portal so that it couldn’t be engineered to bring the chaos from the New World back home to us. That was in a time before the plants and animals took back the city with their muscular roots and hungry young. It was before the High Law was signed by our matriarchs, shared responsibilities between the people and all our relations: the ones that walk on four legs, the ones that swim, the ones that soar in the air, the ones with leaves and branches, our grandfathers the mountains and our grandmothers the waters. Of course, the cycles of war and peace, love and heartbreak, hunger and feasting roll on, but with the understanding that we must always strive for balance. Above all, our circle must be round.

  THE ARK OF THE TURTLE’S BACK

  JAYE SIMPSON

  I HAD BEEN STORING BIRCH SYRUP IN THE BASEMENT FOR SIX YEARS, mixing what little water there is with the syrup and trying to make it keep, when the International Water Ration Act of 2167 was made mandatory. Nishiime Dakib had gone off to the City around the same time I had come home from it. A fancy new private science sector had opened up and offered her a more than comfortable high-up position.

  Dakib has been sending me hormones ever since one of the sweat-pourers said I was iwkekaazo, pretending to be a woman. The pills are expensive, and surgery is out of the question with the rationing upon us. We are getting even less water now, but we are used to it, our tap water having been unsafe to drink for nearly two hundred years.

  The water in the plants is safe. I had been teaching folks in the community how to extract it safely and sustainably when the New Indian Agents set up camp wondering why we weren’t dehydrated like the other Indians down south. I can’t even remember how much blood was drawn from me, but they kept the questions coming and eventually left when we remained tight-lipped.

  My house holds four of us: Axil, Giiweden, ashe, and me. Axil is a tall and lanky Michif man who shares a bed with me occasionally when my moon billows throughout my bones and causes a deep dry ache in my breasts and abdomen. I know it is wrong to lead him on like that; I just see no future raising children with him in this world. But an ache is still an ache. Together we collect syrup and keep the mining companies from taking Giiweden and ashe, the sometimes angsty young neechies in our home. The Moon settlement is always “recruiting” and, of course, the United InterCountry Senate is actively colonizing Mars after a successful terraform. I keep their hormone replacement therapy ongoing as the
UICS has strict laws surrounding transgender individuals. Dakib always sends us six months of prescriptions every three months just in case the NIA come around.

  DAKIB COMES HOME IN A TRANSPORT VAN when I am out among the Prairie Fire and ode’imin collecting the sweet and small hearts for preserves. She looks good, hair pressed and cheeks peach with powder. Manidoo, how I miss using blush, but how wasteful it is for me to crush these plants into dye to do so.

  Dakib has this urgency, this drive, and begs us to pack up, telling us to gather only necessities and to leave the supplies and loved things behind. Dakib checks her phone constantly, breathes a sigh of relief when it took us only twenty minutes to gather our lives all up in two small suitcases, and groans when I bring my bundle, hand drum and all.

  “Nimisenh! Sister! C’mon, we don’t have time for this! The convoy is ready to leave and we’re six hours to the City,” she urges. I tut at her as I pull down the photo of Koko-Wahê from the wall to put in the bundle bag.

  “Koko-Wahê didn’t return home after five generations of displacement and kidnapping for you to rush us outta here,” I snap at her.

  “Koko-Wahê didn’t run away from the Rez at the age of fourteen to go to the City to experiment with strangers and figure out their gender identity.” Dakib waves her arms in a circle at my body, rushing me out the door. I let the words sting as Giiweden and ashe take their seats in the middle of the van, Axil getting in behind them looking concerned. The driver is youngish, from Six by the looks of it. He places a hand atop Dakib’s shaking one as she slides into the front. I take a seat beside Axil. He slips his hand atop my lap and I let him kiss my shoulder.

  “We meet up with the convoy at Auntie Leigh’s, there’s a team there for us. I can fill you in once there, but for now, please have faith in me, sister,” Dakib states simply, forcing us into complacency, which by now we’re used to out of fear of the NIA stealing bodies for their mining and “settlement” camps off planet. The truck rumbles, unaccustomed to the unpaved roads on the reservation. Giiweden grumbles about xyr graphic novel collection and being awake; xe is usually asleep during the day, especially in the heat of July. The van’s air conditioning is on full blast and I can see Dakib still perspiring. Something else is up. Why go into the City? Metropolises weren’t exactly the safest places for us as a very queer and very Indigenous family trying to hide from the NIA.